Down at Heel
The trains are rattling the windows again this morning. Funny how you notice things some days and not on others. Yesterday I was so full of my time with Ernestine I barely noticed the object I picked up on our walk. I just tossed it on the pile as I breezed in. Now I find myself staring at it, very moved.
It is the heel of someone's shoe. A flat heel, sensible and downmarket. The edge is all jagged so they favour the outside of their heel. Someone has worn and worn and worn the shoe to which this heel belongs. Just looking at it, sitting here on the table with its sloping angle, I feel the ghost presence of that towering human bulk that has pressed and pressed and pressed down on this heel.
Now they have lost that dependable cushion and their well used shoes are rendered useless, and they are probably not worth fixing, or so the cobbler tells you when he looks at your poor old shoes with some distaste. How to communicate the bond you have with those old shoes that have carried you so faithfully and so far?